


I Drove All Night (The Boys Don't Cry Remix)

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: remix_redux, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-23
Updated: 2003-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Xander supposed he meant it as comfort, but it felt more like pity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Drove All Night (The Boys Don't Cry Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of **Stray Birds** by s.a. Written for [**We Invented the Remix...Redux**](http://www.unfitforsociety.net/remix03/). Thanks to Jen, Dot, Meg, Pete'n'Melissa and DD, and to s.a. for writing a lovely Xanderfic I could remix.

Xander drove.

It was his wedding day, it was pouring rain, and Xander   
drove.

At first, he didn't even pay attention to where he was   
going. He just hit the highway and drove into the night.

When he found himself, after two hours in traffic, on   
the outskirts of LA, he sighed.

Cordelia. He would go see Cordelia. She would say something   
snarky, he would laugh and it would all be all right. For five minutes   
at least. He wasn't afraid she'd take Anya's side. Of course she would.   
Who wouldn't? But she would understand that sometimes leaving is better   
than staying. Especially when staying would be more painful in the end.

His thoughts twisted round on themselves, like a snake   
eating its tail, and he was grateful that he had to stop thinking and   
start paying attention to the streets, because he wasn't that familiar   
with LA.

The hotel was dark when he pulled up, and no one answered   
when he banged on the door.

He sat down on the front steps for a bit, waiting, but   
that just got him thinking again. And thinking was bad.

He couldn't get over the idea that he'd one day wake up   
and be his father, and Anya would be stuck in the role of his mother.   
There would be fighting and drinking and misery all around. He'd grown   
up with it, and didn't want it in his life anymore, wouldn't wish it   
on his worst enemy, let alone the woman he loved.

No. No thinking, he told himself sternly. You're bad at   
it, and it never leads anywhere good. If you're going to think, think   
of something useful.

There was only one other place he could think of to go.

He got back in the car and drove some more.

Someone was coming out as he was going in, so he didn't   
have to ring the bell, which was good. He wasn't sure he'd be able to   
talk into the little intercom and explain why he was here. Because how   
do you tell someone you knew for a few months three years ago that you   
walked out on your fiancée on your wedding day, and hey, can   
I sleep on your couch for a few days while she clears her stuff out   
of my apartment?

He shook his head. Thinking bad, he reminded himself,   
and knocked.

Wesley opened the door.

"Hi."

Wesley stared blankly at him.

Xander opened his mouth, and as usual, the words just   
started pouring out, no conscious thought involved.

"Um. Look. I'm sorry to just come over, without calling   
or anything, but I didn't have anywhere else to go. I tried the hotel,   
but everyone was ... not there, and I couldn't stay in Sunnydale, and   
you're the only other guy I know in LA, so I'm kinda hoping you'll let   
me stay here."

"...Xander?" Wesley's voice was a hoarse rasp that barely   
rose above a whisper. Xander figured the big red scar that ran across   
his throat accounted for that.

"I forgot to say hi, didn't I?"

Wesley ran a hand through his hair, and rubbed his unshaven   
chin. "Just ... come in."

Xander stepped through the doorway, dragging his bag behind   
him. He looked around at the apartment, taking in the overwhelming blue-ness   
of it. Books and papers were scattered on every surface, which made   
it somewhat familiar. Giles's apartment had often looked the same.

He fidgeted nervously as Wesley closed the door, playing   
with the edge of his shirt and watching his host. Xander wasn't the   
best at reading people, but he got the feeling Wesley was at the end   
of his rope and in no mood to deal with visitors from Sunnydale, trailing   
with them reminders of failures past. He knew that Wesley had become   
integral to Angel's operation, that the ex-Watcher had made a life for   
himself in LA and was actually a good guy to have in a fight. No doubt   
he had no desire to relive his days as the prissiest Brit this side   
of the Atlantic, which was fine with Xander. He had no desire to go   
into his reasons for being in LA. Not with Wesley.

He was on the verge of turning around and walking out   
when Wesley spoke again.

"I don't have a spare room, or a futon." He pointed into   
the living room. "I suppose you'll have to manage with the couch. There   
should be some food in the refrigerator. I'm going to bed."

Xander nodded at Wesley's retreating back; he could deal   
with the lumpy couch and leftovers. He'd had worse.

But then again, he'd had better, too.

With Wesley gone, Xander settled on the couch. He could   
feel the fatigue seeping through his body, his brain hurt from all the   
thinking and not-thinking he'd done, and his eyes burned and itched   
at the tears he'd been holding back since the moment he'd gotten in   
the car and left Sunnydale.

He found the bathroom, changed into his pajamas, and went   
through his usual nightly routine before heading back to the couch,   
stumbling over the unfamiliar furniture in the dark.

He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, then   
gave it up and laid on his side, clutching a pillow to his face, so   
that when he finally gave into the sobs, Wesley couldn't hear him.

Eventually, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

***

Xander woke to the scent of coffee brewing and the sound   
of someone rustling around in the refrigerator.

He opened his eyes and his stomach clenched in fear for   
a moment, as he couldn't remember where he was. And then it hit him.

LA.

Wesley's.

He rolled off the couch and walked to the kitchen. Wesley   
stood holding a moldy hunk of cheese, a baffled look on his face.

"Big with the skeezy cheeses, aren'tcha Wes?" Xander said,   
and then remembered the last time he'd said something similar. He looked   
down at his hands, absently counting the polka dots on his sleeve.

Wesley didn't bother asking, for which Xander was grateful.   
He didn't want to start explaining.

Wesley simply tossed the cheese out and looked back at   
Xander.

"Would you like to go out?"

Xander shuffled his feet, let out a sigh. "Yeah. Lemme   
get some clothes on. We can do IHOP."

Wesley nodded.

They soon found themselves sitting in a booth, ordering   
pancakes from a striking transvestite named Ginger. Xander tried not   
to stare; Wesley didn't bother to look after placing his order.

Xander ordered strawberry pancakes with whipped cream,   
trying to forget countless post-slayage pancake parties at Buffy's house,   
with Joyce or Tara in the kitchen, and Willow, Buffy and Anya at his   
side.

"I thought you had a job?" Wesley asked as they waited   
for their food.

"I, uh, took a hiatus," Xander said. He tried to control   
his fidgeting, tried to look like the bottle of ketchup was the most   
interesting thing he'd seen in ages. He knew he wasn't fooling Wesley,   
and he for damn sure wasn't fooling himself.

"I see," Wesley said, and Xander wondered, what, exactly,   
Wesley saw. A man on the verge of a nervous breakdown? A fool who'd   
walked out on the best thing that had happened to him since meeting   
Buffy? He tuned back in to hear Wesley say, "Exactly how long are you   
planning on staying in Los Angeles?"

Xander shrugged. "As long as you'll let me, I guess."   
He waved a fly from the table and stared into his coffee mug. Turnabout   
is fair play, he thought. "Um, I don't want to pry or anything, but   
shouldn't you be with Deadboy?"

"No." So much for that. Xander knew when a subject was   
off-limits.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, while Xander   
played with the sugar packets.

"I thought you were marrying Anya?"

Xander froze. "No." And it was amazing how much he sounded   
like Wesley had two minutes ago. When he was able to get control of   
himself again, he found he'd crushed a sugar packet in his fist. He   
spent several awkward moments dusting sugar off his palms.

He had never been so glad to see a transvestite in his   
life when Ginger sauntered over to their table and laid down their respective   
plates. "Eat up, boys," she said sagely. "Need to keep you strong and   
... healthy," she said with a bit of a leer.

Xander gave a half-hearted smile before digging into his   
pancakes, and Wesley nodded, saying, "Thank you," as Ginger receded.

***

When they got home, Wesley went straight for his bedroom,   
leaving Xander to his own devices.

He looked around the living room, taking it all in. Bookcases   
everywhere. There was a table he guessed Wesley used as a desk, with   
papers scattered on it, and a laptop closed on a stack of files. A TV   
sat in the corner, and there Xander found it: the Nintendo. This was   
good. This was very good.

He sat in front of the television and flipped through   
Wesley's games until he found it. The game he just knew would be there.   
Zelda.

Xander didn't look up from the TV for about five hours,   
and then only when Wesley came within his line of sight.

"Having fun?"

"Um, yeah," Xander said, putting down the game control   
and standing up, his joints popping in the process.

Wesley went over to the desk, reaching for his laptop   
and a few random papers. He glanced at Xander once again, before withdrawing   
back to his bedroom. Xander started to wonder what was so exciting about   
that room, anyway. He sat down on the couch, rummaging through his stuff   
until he found his copy of _On the Road_. He never left Sunnydale   
without it. He flipped to the first page of his favorite book, and fell   
into the words.

And soon, he fell into sleep.

His dreams were troubled, and he moved restlessly on the   
couch, begging Anya for forgiveness. She walked away and he clutched   
at her, bringing her hand to his lips.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I love you, I'm   
sorry..."

The couch shifted under extra weight, and the feel of   
warm, dry skin against his face woke him.

He opened his eyes, squinting in the darkened apartment.

"You were talking in your sleep," Wesley said.

"I-- Oh. Well."

"Yes." Wesley hesitated, and Xander closed his eyes against   
the question he knew was coming. "Things are-- not well in Sunnydale?"

"Way to state the obvious, Wes." Wesley looked away and   
Xander bit his lip. "I'm sorry. I--" He couldn't do anything right,   
and Wesley should *know* that, shouldn't make him say it.

"It's all right."

"No, it's not." Xander sat up. "I'm sorry." Then, "I wish   
it was that easy to say it to Anya."

"You can say it," Wesley said, "but do you mean it?" Xander   
had no response. "And vengeance demons -- even former vengeance demons   
\-- are not known for their capacity to forgive."

"Some things probably shouldn't be forgiven."

"And some people will never forgive. And even if they   
did, they'll never forget..." Wesley trailed off, and his bitterness   
was palpable. Xander heard echoes of his own desperation in Wesley's   
voice.

"Can you make me ... forget? For just a while?"

"N-no."

Xander heard the hesitation, and made a subtle change   
in the way he was gripping Wesley's hand, tracing circles on it with   
his thumb.

He heard Wesley's sharp indrawn breath. "Well, maybe."

Xander didn't have time to do more than smirk half-heartedly   
before Wesley hauled him close, forcing their mouths together. Wesley   
tasted of desperation and single-malt scotch. Xander felt like he was   
tasting his own emotions.

Xander pressed himself to Wesley, grinding against Wesley's   
surprisingly hard cock. Hands fumbled with frustratingly difficult buttons   
and zippers, frantically pushing denim and cotton away with the overwhelming   
need to touch, to feel skin against skin.

It different from Anya, so different, and that was exactly   
what he wanted, what he needed to forget, even if it was only for the   
space of ten minutes.

He skimmed Wesley's body, hard planes of sweat-covered   
skin, muscles and scars, as Wesley did the same to him, making him gasp   
with need.

And then he felt the cold air against his skin, raising   
goosebumps.

"Wesley? Please?"

"I--"

Xander reached out and brushed his fingers down Wesley's   
face, feeling the stubble so similar to his own, and the soft skin beneath.

"It's all right," he said, his breathing still ragged.   
"It's what I want."

"It's what you want right now," Wesley replied. "In the   
morning, things may look different."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean it's not the right thing   
right now." He dragged his thumb across Wesley's lower lip. "Besides,   
I'm all tapped out on regret."

Wesley's, "Me, too," was so low Xander wasn't sure he'd   
even heard it, but then Wesley's mouth was on his again and words were   
no longer important. He lay back, pulling Wesley with him, over him.

Xander thrust helplessly against the body above him, blindly   
seeking release, the oblivion he craved. Wesley bit down on his shoulder,   
and Xander knew it would leave a mark, but he didn't care.

Wesley stroked Xander's cock, making him buck madly. For   
a rare moment, Xander was rendered speechless.

Then he whispered, "Do it, do it, do it, do it..." It   
was both penance and pleasure, and an image from one of Giles' books   
flashed across the inside of his eyelids -- monks flagellating themselves,   
pain and pleasure in every strike of the flail.

Wesley flipped Xander onto his stomach, and he buried   
his face in the dark brown pillow, gritting his teeth. He felt Wesley's   
cock, slick and hot, at the cleft of his ass and muttered, "I've never--"   
and then Wesley was sliding into him.

It hurt. It hurt far more than Xander expected, and he   
struggled against the feeling of violation. Wesley murmured nonsense   
syllables in his ear, kneading Xander's ass to get him to relax. Wesley's   
hand snaked around and jerked on Xander's cock, and Xander stilled,   
adjusting.

When he was ready, he pushed up against Wesley's weight,   
and Wesley, taking his cue from Xander's body, started moving, slowly   
at first, but hard, deep. There was nothing gentle in the movement.

Xander could have sworn there were bright white sparks   
obliterating his sight. He was filled, violated, impaled - and some   
part of his mind told him that was what he deserved, to be impaled,   
because he always hurt the women he loved. A fitting end.

But the movement, the in and out, in and out, an erratic   
rhythm with only one goal, pushed all thought from his mind. He was   
nothing but nerve endings and raw emotion, pain and pleasure, the penitent   
sinner, sinning again.

It seemed to last forever -- he wanted it to last forever,   
this place where nothing mattered but rhythm and flesh -- but Wesley   
came, rearing back and shouting at the ceiling. Xander followed, the   
orgasm ripping through him like a tidal wave.

And it was over.

Xander came back to earth, slumped against the now-sticky   
brown cushions of Wesley's couch. He hoped it wouldn't stain.

Just one more mess he'd made. He couldn't stop the sobs   
that wracked him then, at the thought of all he'd given up, lost, because   
of his fear, his inability to speak up before it was too late, to face   
the truth head on, like a man.

Wesley lay atop him, and Xander supposed he meant it as   
comfort, but it felt more like pity.

All too soon, Wesley rose, leaving his clothes in a haphazard   
pile on the floor and going back to his room.

"Thanks, Wes," Xander murmured as Wesley shut the door.

And then he was alone. The way he was meant to be.

He wasn't going to regret what had happened with Wesley.   
He didn't have the energy for it, and anyway, regret was useless. It   
didn't -- couldn't -- change anything. He was going to be a man about   
it, go back to Sunnydale and face the situation, try to make it better.

Eventually, he found the energy to get up off the couch   
and clean up. He found a bottle of Febreze under the kitchen sink and   
tried to clean the couch. He folded Wesley's clothes neatly and put   
them in a pile on the coffee table.

He had manners, after all, despite what everyone else   
thought.

He shoved his own dirty clothes into his duffel bag and   
looked around the living room for any other signs that he'd been there.   
His eye fell on the battered copy of _On the Road_, and he came   
to a decision.

He jotted a quick note inside the front cover--

_Wesley- _

_Thanks for letting me stay here. And thanks for last   
night. I guess everybody has to grow up sometime. _

_ The open road calls... _

__

_-Xander _

And left it on top of the pile of clothes.

He was sore, and he was shaken, but he was going back   
to face the mess he'd left behind. It was the right thing to do.

Eyes squinting against the glare of streetlights breaking   
the darkness, Xander drove.

End


End file.
